ancient office of Tory whipper-in, in England. On the night when the Tories received their first defeat upon Reform, B-lly H-lm-s had taken more wine than even He could stand, but the speech of H-nry G-ulb-n having released his stomach, he was thrown into a restorative repose by the opiatory address of my friend Al-x-nd-r B—r—ng, nor did he wake until the moment of dividing. Starting from his sleep, his eye in the finest frenzy rolling, he rushed to the door, caught hold of his deputy whipper-in, who was carelessly going to drink, and poured forth this beautiful effusion, in order to inspire him with zeal in collecting their scattered forces. So grand a spectacle I never witnessed. Alas, alas, the result was fatal! So zealous was the rush of Tory Members, that I saw Lord, in his efforts of intrusion, have his nose squeezed in the crack of the door by Mr. Pratt. The leading journal has basely insinuated a very different source of this nasal loss, and I regret to say, that the Attorney-General has never moved for an ex-officio, against so inamatory a slanderer. what is to be expected from a reforming AttorneyGeneral, a mere Guy Faux of the constitution?

But

FLY NOT TO WINE-TIS JUST THE HOUR.

Fly not to wine-'tis just the hour,

The House divides-the lobbies scour;

And Bellamy's-for once be bright,
The Whigs are strong-we're beat to night,
If friends won't muster soon.
That Tory Members might be paid,
Were boroughs, taxes, titles made;
Fly-tell our friends the loaves are going,
The fishes fast away are flowing,

Oh! pray!-Oh! pray.

The Whigs ne'er wove so strong a chain,
To bind our wrists, our places gain,
If we don't break it soon.

Fly, like our friend, the black-faced blade,
Our long-tailed saint has taught his trade;
Through all our souls his precepts ran,
Since we, like imps and fiends, began
The people's hearts to tear.

If Members game at White's, or Brookes,
And will not vote to-night, odd zooks—
Office we shall ne'er return in,

Hell their recreant souls shall burn in.

Oh! pray!-Oh! pray.

Oh let not Tory spirits quake

The people rouse-they're quite awake

We're beat to night-oh dear!

The following poem, from the pen of His R. H. the Duke of C-mb-nd occasioned me much trouble. It was written on an exceedingly dirty, lacerated piece of paper, and in so bad a hand that it was scarcely legible. The grammar and authography did not lighten my labours. The Oh-in-London is obviously his Royal Highness's mode of spelling HOHENLINDEN, the name of one of the most beautiful poems in the English language. The inuendo contained in the word London is clear from the termination derry added to it, in one part of the MS. though much smeared by the royal thumb. Had not the unrivalled beauty of the poem of Hohenlinden made it known in every language in Europe, the authenticity of the following lines might have been disputed. People would have asked, how is it possible that a Prince who can scarcely write or read, could have been acquainted with one of the happiest efforts of genius? I must add, however, that ignorance of writing and reading by no means implies a want of natural genius. Some of the lines in the following poem are of great merit-e. g. the description of Lord L-ndd-ry's broad low brow-his puddle of oratory-are fine-but whoever has seen his lordship's green eyes when oratorising, must say that

"His eyes like oysters in a fright—”

is one of the finest lines in the English language.

The description of his lordship's face fuming like a Chelsea bun from a pan-of-pies, can only be appreciated by the happy few who have seen his lordship under the fervid influence of his oratorical genius. Mr. Hunt will never prevail against the Duke, whilst he can write such poetry as this.

OH-IN-LONDON.

Oh London's brow's as broad as low,
As white as smock or untrod snow;

Yet dark as puddle was his flow
Of speeches, rolling vapidly.

But London's brow no more was white,

His nose was red, his cheeks were bright-
His eyes like oysters in a fright-

Gone, gone, was his effrontery.

When Grey's Whig power stood array'd,

The "

TOO BAD" Bill in form display'd;

Poor Londonderry louder bray'd,
Yet trembled at their devilry.

Then shook the House, with laughter riven,
To louder brays was London driven;

He bellow'd, roared, and shocked St. Stephen,
Increasing Whiggish revelry.

But mutton fist's still harder blow
Pummell'd the table strong and low,
And muddier yet was the flow
Of London's foaming oratory.

'Tis morn, the candles are outrun,
And London's speeches are not done;
His face like smothered Chelsea bun,
Look'd smoking from a pan-o-pie.

Dividing comes-rush London brave,
Title, borough, place to save:
Charge as a double quack and knave,
Or gone is all our bribery.

Few places part, our hopes to greet
The Bill shall be our winding sheet;
And every clause that there we meet,
Shall be a Tory's sepulchre.

C-MBER-ND.